style="font-size:15px;"> "Yes, yes, you are right," answered his host; "but let us not disturb the joy of our reunion with dismal reflections. Come, drink! But stay! Miriam, bring the Venetian goblets here; and let Elsje light you to the cellar, and bring the two flasks that De Castro sent me."
"Brilliant!" exclaimed the stranger as he raised the glass of newly poured out wine to his lips; " that is real Val de Pefias; where did it come from?"
"As I said, Ramiro de Castro sent it to me from Hamburg. The wine has improved with us, but now it grows more fiery; and we—!"
"Well, well, we have lived; be content. The wine awakes the long-extinguished fire in me. Dost thou remember yet? Such wine we drank that evening in the Posada near the House of Donna Ines, who had already made thee wait two evenings in vain. You struck the table, and swore never to see her again; yet the next evening in the silent Arbor it was 'dear Alfonso' and 'dear Ines' again. Ha! ha! ha!"
The father warned his friend of the presence of the children; the stranger took little notice, however, and revelled in the wine of his native land.
"Do you remember that heavenly summer evening?" he continued, "when we sauntered on the Alameda in Guadalaxara? I see you now, when the bells tolled nine, and every one stood still as if by magic to pray a Pater Noster. I see you standing before me: how you crushed your hat in your hands! Your eyes flashed fire as though they would set the whole world in flames. Donna Ines not excepted. You were a dangerous cavalier."
"By G—," continued the stranger, after he had taken another pull at the wine. "The sweat still stands on my brow when I think how we stood once in Toledo before the church of 'Our Lady del Transito.' 'Do you see,' you said, gnashing your teeth, 'that splendid building was once the synagogue of our fathers. Samuel Levi, who built it, hangs rotting on the gallows, and now—' It was a real wonder that, in spite of thy audacity, we got away with whole heads."
Thus the two old friends renewed the memories of their youth. For an hour they lived a life of pleasure and youthful fire.
"I cannot understand," said Baruch once, "how a man could be happy for a moment in such a land, where he would perpetually see scorn, shame, and death before him."
"You are too young," said the stranger. "Believe me, if men watched your lightest breath, there are hours, yea days, when you can be happy, and forget everything. If men repulse you with scorn, and push you and yours aside into the mud, there is a holy of holies, wherein no earthly power enters: it is your own consciousness, union with your own faithful circle; the heaven that there surrounds us no man can take from us; not even the ever present horror of death.
"All these afflictions have passed over us, and yet we were happy."
"But the incessant discord in the soul? Christian before the world, and Jew at heart?"
"That was our misfortune, that I witnessed in your uncle Geronimo."
"Why does he not leave his dreary hermitage, and come to us?" inquired Baruch.
"He has left his hermitage, and we shall go to him: he is dead. Boy, these sad experiences you should have lived through; it would do you good your whole life long."
Baruch had risen from his seat, and repeated the verse appointed to be said on hearing of a death:
"Praised be Thou, O Lord our God, King of the World, and Righteous Judge!"
"Tell us of it, I pray you," he added; and Miriam too approached the table, and joined in her brother's request.
"It is the Sabbath, and I ought not to do it," said the stranger; "but as you ask it, so let it be. It was his death that decided me to save myself and all dear to me from such a lie."
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER III.
THE JEWISH DOMINICAN.
RODRIGO CASSERES took another long draught from his tall goblet, and began his narration:
"About eight months ago I received a letter from Seville through Philip Capsoli; I was horrified when I read the address, 'To Daniel Casseres in Guadalaxara.' It could only be some thoughtless Jew who would address me by my Hebrew name. How I trembled at the contents! 'Daniel, Man of Pleasure,' it said, 'the day of vengeance and death is at hand, and I must die among the Philistines. Would you ask how it feels to be roasted? Come to me; I am watched by the holy police. In the name of the High God, by the ashes of our murdered brothers and sisters, I conjure you come to thy dying Geronimo de Espinosa.' There could be no doubt that Geronimo himself had written the letter; the fine straight line under the signature, a sign of the worship of the one true God, showed me that plainly, even if I had failed to recognize the trembling handwriting.
"When I told my children of my intention to travel to Seville, I was weak enough to be deterred from its fulfilment by their prayers and tears. I had almost forgotten poor Geronimo, when a dreadful dream reminded me of him, and the next day I set out on my journey.
"I parted from my children with a beating heart, telling them I was going to my sister in Cordova. I travelled swiftly through Cordova, and passed my sister's house unnoticed; I could neither stop nor rest; it was as if an unseen hand drew me irresistibly onward. I arrived at Seville. The clock struck the hour as I mounted the hill. 'There you dwell, my brilliant Geronimo,' I said to myself, 'and turn your footsteps to the Chapel, with prayer on your lips and scorn in your heart. Is it not a tempting of Providence for you, at heart a Jew, to venture your person in the councils of the Inquisition, even to help your brethren?' I entered the chapel, and knelt till the mass was ended. I then arose, and looked round among the stout or ascetic devotees again, but in none could I recognize Geronimo.
"I questioned a familiar; he said Geronimo had lain for weeks between life and death, and talked continually of Daniel in the lions' den. He led me to his cell. The invalid slept, with averted face; nothing was to be seen but the tonsured crown. A crucifix hung over the bed, and a friar sat praying beside him; he signed to me to enter softly. Only the slight breathing of the sick man and a light whisper of prayer spoke of life in this grave-like stillness.
"At last the sick man rose; I did not recognize him: he had deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks, blue lips, overhung by a long flowing white beard. Geronimo's appearance could not be so altered. He recognized me, however, immediately; and softly, with hardly a movement of his lips, said, 'Are you there, Daniel? It is well that you do not desert me; you need not be afraid; you too are in the lions' den; but God will help you to get out, as he did the prophet in Babylon; only from me they have sucked the blood and the life: I cannot get out. In truth, you will not leave me?'
"I had feared that the momentary joy of reunion might have hastened his death. I could hardly understand him when he acted as if we had been long together, as if we had never been parted. He signed to the brother praying beside him, who took his book under his arm and went out. As he went he whispered in my ear that I could ring if I required aid.
"'Has he gone?' then said Geronimo. 'Come quick: give me the pitch-smeared hoops you carry under your mantle; I will hide them in my bed. Tonight when they all sleep we will burn the nest over their heads: that will be a joyful sacrifice; the angels in heaven will laugh to see it; I am bound, I cannot get out. It must be kindled at all four sides at once;
